


for life's not a paragraph

by versions91



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood, Death or Near Death, Gunshot Wounds, Language, M/M, MI6 Cafe Challenge: O Death, Major Character Injury, Pain, Q POV, Stream of Consciousness, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8421265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versions91/pseuds/versions91
Summary: They say in Kiralan Bond fell a hundred-metre drop with two bullets in the chest, and came back, came back to duty. He can work some miracles, but not like that.(There were about seven minutes. He thought about death. Then, he thought about life.)





	

He brought it upon other people. Not directly: he made the guns that sent them bullets and death. He must face it too. Everyone does. He knew it's inevitable, but he didn't know how or when. Nobody does. This is not a bad way to go, on a mission, for queen and _country_. Christ, he really should've taken the consulting job instead, death by caffeine and Powerpoint is perhaps acceptable after all. 

The pistol jerked upwards as if knocked by a wave. There was no reprieve, no delay for realisation and diffusion of pain slowly dawned, like a bud of red carnation blooming in its own time. Shattered, seismic pressures pulsing, bone muscle and sinew splintering, he wants to howl, to crawl, out of his skin, out of being. Every synapse burns, every heartbeat thrums, pumping blood out of him. Warm. Five, seven minutes until he passes out? If he's lucky. This is definitely a bad way to go but at least he's not drowning please he just wants to go in an exhale it'll be over. 

Soon, soon. Not yet.

He's not pessimistic, he'd just rather go quickly. This must be bumfuck nowhere—is he even still in Argentina? They've searched him, but didn't take the glasses, idiots—it doesn't matter now. His blood is seeping through that crack in the concrete. At least some of him got away.

Over idle hours he had thought about death often. Espionage is risky, and the agents, sometimes they don't come back. MI6 was blown up before he started this job and people died. He thinks, and he has accepted, he thinks he has, that death is the end. Physically he'll be compost, mentally he'll just, not be, no more. Somewhere, somewhere he's heard, something about being in love with "easeful Death." Luxurious. This is not easeful at all, but yes, at some point, there will be no struggle or ease. Any time now, actually, any time now, any time now, any time a—

 _Relax—_

Pain washes over him like torrential rain. Sediments of awareness in his surroundings slip away, leaving him only thoughts: no mercy now. Nobody came over to finish him clean. Negligent, or, someone hates his guts. His guts, haha. His throat constricts and he chokes on cheap cloth, rough fibre cutting into the seams of his mouth deeper. He pants for breath, his face and body wet. 

He wants to be untied and lay flat. Not like he could fight now, they should at least lay him flat. But of course he has to lie in an awkward twist half-kissing the floor for the grand exit. Oh it was ... from a poetry reading. Was asked if he wanted to go to a poetry reading. Turl Street Kitchen. Wasn't sure if it was a date? Was late, just missed her performance—what terrible luck, he did apologise—but he walked into a boy, tall, with soft hair, the most extraordinary nose and broad shoulders, speaking of darkness, sweet fruits, birds, a waking dream. 

"Adieu! Adieu!"

Andy. Wonder how you're doing? Whatever it is, hope you are not lying in a pool of your own blood thinking about your uni thing. Ah fuck he's got to stop making himself laugh, it hurts even more.

In Sunday school he learned about Lazarus, raised by Jesus, rose from the dead. Honestly, why even? Why die twice? Can't be pleasant. They say in Kiralan Bond fell a hundred-metre drop with two bullets in the chest, and came back, came back to duty. He can work some miracles, but not like that.

_"You still have spots.”_

_"Thank you Q.”_

_"There's just one more th—“_

Goddamnit he's not spending his precious dying thoughts on the fucker. 

Bond. 

Bond, Bond will take care of himself, will escape and survive a hundred other falls. Maybe they haven't gotten to him at all.

At the very edge of pain there is relief. It's a shame to go now, but it's not up to him. He's sorry for Mama and Dad but there's nothing he can do, could have done. He's sorry for Hannah _sorry I left like this_. There's no way to tell her but she knows. Oh shit what will happen to Gilbert and Maude?

Pleasing thoughts now, thoughts to tide you over to the power-off. Go out on your terms. Breakfast with ten kinds of cheese, chives, tomato, ham, strawberries. Picnic off the Romantic Road, white daisies in the field, before Rothenburg ob der Tauber. Sixteen, same summer he hiked and parachuted above the glittered Tegernsee (the world at his feet). Driving. Driving down forest-lined Trollstigen, ocean-sided Pacific Highway 1, the bumpy country road before the summer house, shaded by oleanders pink and white. River-salted breeze on Embankment, grass-scented air in Holland Park, the expanse of Trafalgar Square in peopled glory. Birds, birds overhead. Fry-ups. Tea, perfectly steeped: Assam with milk, Earl Grey with honey. Little paws, curious noses and glassy eyes. A hand gripping his, firm, calloused, warm. God, why is he thinking about it again? _You must have known._

No matter now. He never said it, but in all other ways he had, had he not? He goddamn _stuttered._

When he wakes he doesn't remember how his last thoughts had ended. Curious thing, the mind, it runs on, never knowing beginnings or ends. Again and again he wakes; again and again he sleeps. He remembers waking but never remembers sleeping.

He remembers—soon he is to lose it, but, for now, let him have it, let him—his father, sitting on the balcony by the South China Sea, facing west. The silvery blue sea stretches endlessly, a smooth canvas dotted by a few cargo ships here or there. A cloudless day; the sun was setting. His father sat in the light, cross-legged, eyes closed. Dad? He was a child, had never seen anyone keep so perfectly still, as if lifeless. The perpetual frown between the brows eased, fell away. Lips were held without tension, lifted: neither a smile nor a frown. It was a wet hot October, breezeless, insufferable, yet by each breath, air flowed.

He wakes to a rustling. Far away, a rustling through the mountains, leaves brush against each other as they float on mad currents. There’s a commotion in the sea of trees. Hush.

He wakes to see red brown. Red carnations, the petals turn dark and brittle when they wilt.

He wakes to tumbling, tilting, turning upwards. He sees blue. Is he drowning after all? No. He sucks in a breath. _You came?_ This is not a bad way to go. O, this is not a bad way to go.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the long version of [this ficlet](http://monologues91.tumblr.com/post/152195426921/for-lifes-not-a-paragraph), which I wrote for the October MI6 Cafe "O Death" Challenge. They're the same and different, so I'm posting both.
> 
> Title taken from a poem by E. E. Cummings, [since feeling is first](https://dailypoetry.me/e-e-cummings/since-feeling-is-first).
> 
> Thanks [BoredPsychopath_JC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BoredPsychopath_JC/) for pre-reading and believing in me when I doubt myself. All mistakes remain mine. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are most appreciated. I'd also take questions if you have any! Find me on Tumblr [here](http://monologues91.tumblr.com/). x


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